


The Mirage

by GrownUp90s



Category: Mighty Ducks (Movies)
Genre: All grown-up, Exotic locations, F/M, Gold-plated Problems, Love or Lust?, Naughty Humor, Rediscovery, Smut, Travel, Vegas tryst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 13:10:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13502224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrownUp90s/pseuds/GrownUp90s
Summary: 15 years after graduating from Eden Hall and leaving the Ducks behind, Dean Portman reconnects with Julie Gaffney on the Vegas Strip. But 'Mirage' isn't just the name of the hotel. Will Julie and Dean ever be able to see each other for who they really are?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, y’all. Normally, I’m a diehard Julie/Adam shipper, but I’ve been having this idea for an adult Julie/Portman fic that’s just been gnawing away at me. So, if for no other reason than to get it out of my system, here it is! Enjoy, and please let me know what you think :)
> 
> -Matt
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own the Mighty Ducks movie franchise or The Mirage in Las Vegas, and stand to make no profit from this story. But how awesome would any or all of that be?

Dean Portman awoke with a jolt.

_Goddamn, it feels like the plane is humping the Rockies right now._

"Uh…ladies and gentlemen…this is uhhhh…your captain speaking. We're…uh….experiencing a bit of turbulence right now.”

_Well there goes my mountain-humping theory._

"Nothing to worry about," the pilot continued over the PA. "But…uhhhhh…please fasten your seatbelts."

This was a reminder that Portman needed to heed not only on airplanes, but in cars as well.

_But it hasn't killed me yet._

Deciding that if he was about to die, he would prefer to die comfortably, Portman ignored the captain's warning and reclined in his leather business class seat, seatbelt unfastened.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Yeah, doll?"

Portman felt a wave of crimson embarrassment wash over his stubbly face as he opened his eyes to discover that the 'stewardess' he had been expecting was in fact a male flight attendant afflicted with a reedy voice.

"Er, sorry about that, buddy. What can I do for you?"

"We're experiencing a little turbulence, and the captain wants you to fasten your seatbelt."

"Right, sorry."

Portman strapped the belt across his waist with his bright, professional smile that appeared genuine. He had lost count of how many people he had disarmed over the years with that smile.

"Not a problem, sir," the flight attendant returned the grin before moving on.

With the flight attendant gone, Portman released the buckle on his seatbelt, and nestled the side of his face into his chair.

_Shoulda asked for a pillow while I had the guy. Ah well._

But he was used to sleeping in less-than-ideal conditions. Having grown up on Chicago's gritty South Side, Dean Portman had regularly gone to sleep against the sounds of trains, cars, loud voices, and even gunfire. He had come a long way in the years since, his education at Eden Hall Academy having provided him with the opportunity to live a better life.

And he took full advantage.

After redshirting his freshman year, he played defenseman at the University of Michigan, where he helped the Wolverines get to three consecutive Frozen Fours. His five years in Ann Arbor had been productive from an academic standpoint as well, graduating _cum laude_ with a bachelor's in finance and an MBA.

Then came his ten – and counting – years at the Pyramid Consulting Firm.

_Terrible, terrible name. We might as well call ourselves 'Ponzi and Associates.'_

He had voiced his disapproval of the company name to his superiors on several occasions, and each time, they simply smiled and nodded. Consultants were too used to giving advice to ever take any themselves.

But even if Portman's bosses could not be bothered to take his naming advice, they respected his talent enough to pay him handsomely – handsomely enough to afford a Fifth Avenue apartment overlooking Central Park, a condo in Miami Beach, and a beautiful colonial for his mother in safe, middle class Glen Ellyn.

When word reached Portman's old South Side neighborhood that he had made it big, long-forgotten friends, vague acquaintances, and strangers claiming childhood friendship all came to him with outstretched palms. But with a businessman's ruthless efficiency, he managed to weed out the frauds and the opportunists from his legitimate friends before opening his wallet.

He only heard from these 'legitimate friends' on occasion, and always to ask for a loan that he knew would never be repaid.

Dean Portman had worked like a beaver to get out of that Chicago slum, and when he made it to the top, he learned firsthand just how lonely it was up there.

The plane rumbled ominously, but Portman fell sound asleep.

* * *

_Ah, the Mirage._

Portman grinned softly as Steve Wynn's iconic Vegas hotel came into view. With its giant palm trees, crystal pools, and erupting volcano, the grounds of the luxury hotel looked like Maui planted in the desert. And Portman knew from experience that the interior was equally impressive.

But more than the furnishings, the décor, and the building materials, Dean Portman appreciated the buxom, leggy talent that colonized the hotel's well-stocked bar.

After parking his rental car and checking in at the front desk, a pair of bellhops came and took Portman's luggage up to his room ahead of him, while the high-priced consultant leisurely strolled the hallway that connected to the lobby before making his way to the elevator, where a young, uniformed Hispanic man greeted him with a polite tip of the cap.

"Good evening, sir. What floor?"

"The eighth."

"Very good."

The attendant closed the black grate, and pushed the button for the eighth floor. Despite the old-world appearance of the elevator, the bearings were obviously new. Portman didn't even feel that he had been moving when he heard a gentle ping and saw the attendant open the grate.

"Have a good night, sir."

"Oh, I'll be back – don't you worry," Portman grinned.

"I'm looking forward to it," the attendant grinned back.

_Ah, faux affability. Much more reliable than the 'real' stuff._

Stepping off the elevator, Portman felt his feet sink into the plush, burgundy carpet of the hallway. Though he was still fit, he doubted that he was strong enough to push a full meal cart through that thick carpeting.

_Maybe if I was still a Bash Brother though…_

He smiled at the thought. Even at the age of thirty-three, Dean Portman's mythic strength as one of the Mighty Ducks' fearsome Bash Brothers continued to live on in his imagination. To the thirty-three year old, there were few feats of strength that were too much for his seventeen year old self.

_I was a fuckin' beast back then. I never towed a yacht with only my breaststroke…but I could have._

Sometimes he wondered about his old Bash Brother, Fulton Reed. Over the years, Portman had made a few half-hearted efforts to look him up, but never tried too hard.

_Probably just another 'friend' looking for a handout now, anyway._

After sliding his keycard, Portman entered his hotel room. He felt like he had entered the Palace of Versailles, with its ivory-colored upholstery, gold-plated furniture legs, and stunning oil paintings. The pair of bellhops that had greeted him in the lobby were now standing by the luggage that they had just brought up, professional grins firmly in place. It came as no surprise to Portman that they were speedy enough to bring the luggage up ahead of him, but not speedy enough to leave the room before they could get a tip.

"Thank you, gentlemen," he offered, handing a crisp 20-dollar bill to each of them.

The bellhops gave their thanks, then vanished like ghosts.

Portman slid out of his navy sport coat before tossing it lazily over the back of the settee.

_Time to freshen up._

Although he was about to seek the company of working girls, he held firm to the belief that if women were expected to be beautiful, then men owed it to them to look their best in return.

He got out of his white dress shirt and tossed it to the floor before grabbing his shaving kit, then made his way to the bathroom in his slate-gray Dockers and brown loafers. In his spacious bathroom, he didn't even have to wait a full three seconds before the water in his sink turned hot.

He let the basin fill with hot water as he allowed his silvertip badger hair brush to soak.

Looking up at his reflection in the mirror, Portman grimaced slightly.

_Skinny little puke._

His hair was still thick and uniformly brown, but he had always hated his curls – hiding them beneath bandanas during his Bash Brother days and keeping his hair short enough as an adult to prevent them from becoming too noticeable. Gray was beginning to appear in his dark stubble like grains of formica.

 _Or asbestos,_ he thought grimly.

He fished his brush out of the basin and gave it a good squeeze, followed by a few flicks to get most of the water out. Then, he put a dollop of sandalwood shaving cream onto his bristly cheek and got to work building a lather on his face. When he was done with that, he grabbed his double-edged safety razor and began to unmask himself – banishing the stubble and reclaiming his face for smooth skin.

His grooming conquest complete, Portman drained the basin and took a few seconds to appreciate the thick, mostly black stubble left behind as the soapy water disappeared down the plughole. Then, even the vanquished stubble had to go. Running the cold tap, he whipped the water around and cleared the basin, then splashed some of the cold water onto his face.

After putting on a fresh white dress shirt, he slid into his navy sport coat and made the walk back to the elevator.

* * *

 Portman was greeted by the gentle melodies of Schubert as he sauntered into the hotel bar. In the far corner, a tuxedo-clad pianist had the baby grand purring like a kitten.

The room was quiet, but Portman was able to spot at least three women who looked like they were open for business.

_Blonde, brunette, auburn. One of each flavor._

The Brunette One looked especially tempting. Smooth, olive skin; cascading chestnut hair; long, luscious legs; and a positively delectable pair of chest hams – all wrapped in a tight, black cocktail dress.

But looking over the Brunette One’s blonde and auburn-haired competition, Portman figured he would readily agree to be the slave of any one of them for the night.

He took a seat at the bar.

"Glenfiddich, neat," he requested.

"Yes, sir."

With no one seated next to him, Portman decided to check baseball scores on his phone as he waited for his scotch. His Chicago White Sox had gotten destroyed by the Detroit Tigers earlier that day, and their hated North Side rivals were looking poised to finally break the old Billy Goat Curse.

_Ah well. Only two months til hockey season, anyway._

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?" Asked an alluring feminine voice.

"Not at all. May I buy you a drink?"

Portman caught a breath in his throat as he turned to face his visitor. It was the Blonde One. Now standing directly over him, he recognized her. Or at least he thought he did.

"Julie?"

She flashed a perfect set of pearly whites as she nodded.

"Julie Gaffney?"

"Actually, it's Julie Mitchell."

"Oh, so you're married."

" _Was_ married," she corrected him. "Just too lazy to change my name back. Also, ‘Mitchell’ is kinda my professional name now, so it would be difficult for me to go back to 'Gaffney'."

"Right," Portman nodded.

 _Her_ professional _name. When did working girls start giving out their last names?_

Reading Portman's thoughts, Julie glared at him.

"You think I'm a working girl, don't you?"

Portman snorted, his scotch rising painfully up his mouth and down his nose.

"No," he coughed. "Not at all. I kinda figured you were too old for that."

She clapped his arm with her handbag.

"Ass."

"Sorry."

"I forgot, Dean Portman: as smooth as 20-grit sandpaper."

He was about to reply "And just as readily available," but checked himself in the nick of time.

"Please, sit down," he said instead. "And let me buy you a drink to make up for my crassness."

"I didn't know that they served drinks by the barrel here."

Portman chuckled. Fifteen years removed from Eden Hall and Julie Gaffney…rather… _Julie Mitchell_ was still the consummate ball-buster. It was just one of the many things that he had found so difficult to resist about her.

Looking over his companion as she took her seat next to him, Portman realized that the years had been awfully good to her. Julie's long hair was a lighter shade of blonde than it had been in high school, and her bright green eyes were a sexy contrast to her summer tan. The bronze glow of her skin was made all the richer by the little white dress that Portman knew would simultaneously torture and delight him.

"So what can I get you?" He asked.

"A Manhattan."

"A Manhattan for the lady, please," Portman called to the barman.

The barman nodded and got to work mixing the cocktail.

"So, Dean Richard Portman…"

"Please don't say my middle name."

"…what brings you to Sin City?"

"The annual PCF convention," he answered. "I'm actually delivering the keynote."

Julie nodded at that.

"You always _could_ put on a good show."

"Thank you."

"Doesn't mean that you always _did,_ but you always had the ability."

"Heh, thanks."

As Julie's Manhattan arrived, Portman raised his scotch.

"To your health."

"Cheers."

The pair of Eden Hall alumni each took a drink before setting their glasses down.

"PCF – what is that, anyway?"

"The Pyramid Consulting Firm."

"Terrible name," Julie winced. "It reeks of fraudulence."

"Heh, yeah," Portman agreed. "That's why I like to call it 'PCF' instead. So what about you, what are _you_ doing in Vegas?"

"Talking to you."

"That you are," he nodded. "And my balls are still firmly in your vise."

At that, Dean Portman had earned his first 'Julie giggle' in fifteen years.

"Well at least they know their place."

"Are you staying at the Mirage?" He asked.

"Mmm-hmm," she replied, stroking the stem of her glass with her forefinger and thumb.

The suggestive gesture was impossible for him to miss. If he played his cards right, he could have her that very night.

"I guess I won't have to go far for entertainment, then."

"You're never far from entertainment in this town," she replied. "It all depends on what you're looking for."

"Then what are you looking for?"

She gave him a sly grin.

"You really wanna know?"

"I _really_ _wanna_ know."

As Julie leaned in closer to him, Portman could smell the mixture of rye whiskey and sweet vermouth on her breath.

_Elegant and dangerous. Just like her._

It took every ounce of his self-control for Portman not to jump off the barstool as Julie's thick lips brushed the outer ridge of his ear before briefly locking onto and nibbling his earlobe.

He felt himself getting hard.

"I wanna see a dwarf get shot out of a cannon at a freak show," she told him at full volume, causing him to recoil.

_So much for the sexy whisper._

Julie laughed out loud at his reaction. Dean Portman had always been like a ball of yarn in the Cat's paws. She took another sip of her Manhattan in triumph.

He downed the rest of his scotch in consolation.

"Well, enjoy the freaks then," he said to her before signaling to the barman. "I'm going to bed."

"Aww, _Dean."_

_Don't look at her. Don't look at her. Don't look at her._

He turned to see an angelic, pleading face.

_Son-of-a-bitch!_

"The night's still young," she protested. "Why go to sleep now?"

And with that, the tables turned in an instant.

_Bad move, Cat. I’ve got you now._

"Who said anything about 'sleep'?" He asked. "I said _bed."_

At once, the pleading angel disappeared.

"I see."

As Portman settled his bar tab, he tried to work out what he needed to say in order to close the tantalizing deal that was just within his grasp. But Julie pre-empted him.

"A strange city is no place to go to bed alone.”

"No, it isn't."

Rising to his feet, Portman extended a hand toward Julie, and guided her off the barstool. Interlocking his long fingers with her silky digits, he then led her out the bar and toward the elevators.


	2. Chapter 2

As they stepped off the elevator and onto the eighth floor, Portman attempted to guide Julie toward his room, only for Julie to tug him in the opposite direction. Before he could protest, she pulled a keycard out of her handbag and unlocked the door to her own room.

“In you go,” she ushered him inside with an amount of force that surprised him.

His brown eyes widened as Julie switched on the lights.

_This place…is…incredible.  
_

If Portman’s suite was a mini-Versailles, Julie’s was a mini-Alpine ski lodge – cedar paneling as far as the eye could see, before giving way to an elevated, marble platform that encased a Jacuzzi. One of the things that Portman had always found charming about the Mirage was that each room had its own distinctive character, and you could never really know what you were getting until you opened the door.

Ski lodge or Versailles, these were impressive – and expensive – digs.

“What was it you said you do again?” Portman asked Julie.

“I _didn’t_ say.”

“Right, right,” he nodded. “Perhaps you could give me a hint?”

Closing the gap between them, she got on her tiptoes and draped her arms around his neck. He gripped her waist and suppressed a quiver at her fierce expression. She pressed her face forward, seizing his lips with her own and stealing a ferocious kiss.

He could feel his will to challenge or question her beginning to fade away.

He always appreciated a woman who did most of the work. And she always demanded obedience.

And she continued demanding it with her lips for God knows how many exquisite, tortured seconds before finally allowing him to breathe.

But not before marking her territory on his lower lip with her teeth.

“I own men,” she declared at last. _“That_ is what I do.”

“And that pays the bills?” He asked meekly.

“Do I _look_ like I need help paying them?”

 _No, you_ look  _like a dominatrix trapped inside the girl-next-door’s body._

With her snarl, her aggressive body language, and her dark flirting, Julie gave every impression of a woman who would skin her lover alive if he failed to satisfy her.

“What do you want me to say?” Portman asked.

Before he knew what hit him, he was on his back, with Julie’s white, open-toe stiletto pinning his throat to the floor.

“I _want_ you to stop talking,” she declared, lifting her stiletto off his throat before hovering it over his mouth. “Lick.”

His next mistake was to hesitate.

_“Ooof!”_

She thrust her red-painted toes back into his face.

“Lick,” she repeated.

He obliged, and eventually drew a luscious purr. He could tell from the sound that her toes weren’t the only things that had gotten wet.

“Mmmm, Dean.”

_My name’s never sounded any sexier than it does right now.  
_

“Deeean.”

Biting her lower lip and closing her eyes, Julie threw her head back – her long blonde hair becoming wild in her ecstasy. She ran her silky hands down the taut sides of her body until she reached the hem of her little white dress. From there, they ran up inside her dress until they found a skimpy ring of white lingerie.

With a quick tug, she sent her thong sliding down her bronze legs before it came in for a landing on Portman’s face.

He inhaled deeply, taking in her scent, and letting it work its magic down below.

But tempting though it was, he didn’t linger with it. He tossed the lingerie aside and got to work on her other set of toes.

“Oh, Deeean.”

Down on the floor, Portman shifted slightly so he could work Julie’s toes while getting a more intimate view up the stairs. Her pert, shapely ass was almost as bronze as the toned thighs that it rested upon. And the lips on her face weren’t the only lips that were luscious and full.

He had thought he couldn’t get any harder just from her pleasure.

But seeing all of this proved him wrong.

“Dean!” She giggled.

He had shot up from the floor and taken possession of her – with one arm wrapped around her back and the other wrapped behind her knees.

With Julie in his arms, Portman charged like a raging rhinoceros toward the bedroom.

 _Dominate_ this, _sweetheart.  
_

He had barely even crossed the threshold when he threw her onto the king-sized bed like a sack of potatoes.

_“Portman!”_

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” he shot back.

Julie hissed.

“Quick, hose that lioness down!”

“Just don’t keep me waiting if you value your prick.”

“What, this little guy?” Portman dropped his slacks and his boxer briefs. “Don’t worry about _this_ little guy.”

Julie bit on her lower lip as she took in the impressive sight. Only the truly well-endowed were secure enough to ever refer to their dick as a ‘little guy.’

As Portman began undoing the buttons on his dress shirt, Julie got up from the bed and approached him. It had been too long since she last undressed a guy who was both under sixty _and_ under two-fifty. She intended to savor the experience.

Attacking the top buttons, Julie proceeded to pepper the taut, smooth skin of Portman's chest and abdomen with kisses and lovebites as she worked her way down. He was no longer the hulking giant she had remembered from Eden Hall, but he was solid, and he was hairless. Obviously a guy that took care of himself.

She continued to kiss and bite him as he slid out of his now-entirely open dress shirt.

“Your turn,” he declared.

Julie ceased her nibbles with a slight whimper, but turned her back toward Portman and allowed him to unzip her. Though snug in appearance, the dress slid off her body with an ease that surprised him.

Having parted with her panties during the foreplay, Julie was left with only her strapless white bra.

“I trust you’re the expert on that one,” Portman declared.

She giggled shyly, freeing her breasts without protest.

 _Ah, the Taming of the Lioness,_ he thought with considerable pride.

He grasped her waist with a tenderness that neither of them had expected, and gently guided her down to the bed.

From there, time and space gave way to pure, unadulterated bliss.

* * *

Portman awoke the following morning with Julie clinging to him in her sleep. He didn’t dare move – partly fearing the Lioness’ wrath at being woken, but mainly out of a lust for feline beauty. He wanted to drink in the sight of Julie’s graceful curves, and the almost-crushing strength that ran through her toned limbs. He wanted her luscious lips – the luxurious covering over the pearly whites that she used both affectionately and violently – to remain pressed to his flesh. 

Above all, he wanted to be that ballsy stud who had conquered this beautiful and dangerous creature.

If he shifted, he risked spoiling all of that. Despite being unable to move, Dean Portman could not remember the last time he felt so alive.

Unable to sleep, and unwilling to abandon his conquest, he closed his eyes and gave Julie's waist a possessive squeeze.

* * *

 Julie woke up just moments after Portman had closed his eyes. She wriggled out of his grip and climbed out of the bed, with rays of sunlight peeking through the blinds and branding her bronze skin with golden lines.

Looking back at the man in her bed, she gave a quick chin-nod before moving to the shower.

* * *

 As he heard the door to Julie’s room close behind her, Portman finally opened his eyes again. He had never gone back to sleep, rather, he faked sleep as he heard Julie make her escape. He got out of bed and moved to get dressed. Grasping his wrinkly white dress shirt, Portman managed a chuckle in spite of himself.

_The Player’s Uniform: the wrinkled clothes that he wore the day before. At least there’s that.  
_

He would have preferred Julie on his arm during their walk to breakfast, but he supposed that the Player’s Uniform was an amorous trophy…of sorts. As he ran his black leather belt through the loops of his Dockers, he considered going down to breakfast as he was. Julie was almost certain to be there. If he wanted to ensure that their connection hadn’t just been one of the innumerable Vegas trysts that had gone on that very night, he needed to see her again.

_But a bunch of guys from PCF will be down there too.  
_

Reasoning that the Player’s Uniform was not the sort of thing that he ought to be wearing around his colleagues, Portman decided to return to his room for a shower and a change of clothes.

But not before combing Julie’s room for a note.

Anything that might have been addressed to him – an invitation to stay in touch, contact information, _hell, even a “thanks-for-the-fun” is better than nothing.  
_

But nothing was what he would find. If he wanted to see Julie again, he had two options: await her return in her room, or chance another meeting at the hotel bar.

The latter option wasn’t great, but the former was simply pathetic.

_Right. Get showered, get dressed, and get down to that breakfast buffet. You can’t hunt a lioness on an empty stomach.  
_

* * *

  “There he is, our ace! Portman, over here!”

Dean Portman had emerged from the breakfast buffet and was immediately waved over by his boss, Tony Stockton. The Pyramid Consulting CEO was joined at the table by two other top consultants, Jack Smith – aka ‘Smitty’ – and Brianna Vazquez, along with some frazzled, bearded man with gray hair and tawny, leathery skin.

Portman did not recognize this man.

“Coming,” he replied to Stockton.

Portman, like the three businessmen at the table, donned the ‘business casual’ look with a sports coat and an open-collared dress shirt. Brianna Vazquez wore a conservative white blouse and a black skirt of respectable length.

“Tony, Smitty, Bri,” Portman greeted his colleagues. _“How are we?_ Oh! I’m a poet and I don’t know it – or _do I?”_

“Heheh, have a seat, Dean,” Stockton gestured toward the seat immediately to his right, prompting Smitty to shift to the next spot.

“This gentleman is Rick Cardamone,” Stockton introduced the stranger as Portman took his seat. “He’s the CEO Sol Power, a very promising green energy firm based out of southern California.”

“Dean Portman. A pleasure, Mr. Cardamone,” Portman extended a hand, which the Californian shook.

“Call me ‘Rick,’ man.”

 _Heh, this guy sounds_ exactly _like_ _Tommy Chong. Kinda looks like him too.  
_

“Rick is concerned that Sol Power is underachieving,” Stockton announced. “And I think you’re just the guy he needs in order to maximize its potential, Dean.”

_Underachieving? A green energy company? How can you possibly go wrong with all those government subsidies?  
_

“Sounds interesting,” Portman said instead. “Green energy is very important, and I’d love to do my part to help our planet by facilitating its wider use. As Tony probably already told you, I have considerable experience with mid-level startups in California. My passion is putting all those regulations to work for my client, not the other way around.”

“Uh-huh,” Rick nodded absently. “You gonna eat that muffin?”

“Please, enjoy!” Portman surrendered his muffin with a genial smile.

“Thanks, man. I’m baked.”

 _Well now, I may have just pinpointed the source of Sol Power’s difficulties,_ Portman thought as he watched Rick devour the blueberry muffin. _But what the hell? I like California, and I like massive consulting fees even more.  
_

Portman continued to work his sales and consulting magic on the peckish Californian, occasionally pausing his monologue to hand Rick another piece of his breakfast. The old street kid from the South Side of Chicago had grown up to be a polished, sophisticated, and unstoppable selling and promotional machine. He could even convince the faculty at MIT that they were in desperate need of his expertise in astrophysics.

_But why bother? It’s not like MIT could ever afford me.  
_

Rick Cardamone, of course, never stood a chance.

“Sounds good, man," he said after Portman concluded.

“Splendid!” Portman enthused, proffering a business card from a silver case. “I’ll be in touch with the preliminaries shortly. And if you have any questions or concerns, I’m available morning, noon, and night. My client is my only boss, Rick. Don’t listen to what Tony Boy over here says,” he added with a teasing elbow to Stockton’s ribs.

“Heh, sure thing man. You’re alright.”

And with that, Portman left his newest cash cow to graze.

Having handed over so much of his own breakfast to win the client, Portman realized that he was hungry himself, so he returned to the buffet area. As he made his way to the scrambled eggs, he saw a stunning blonde bombshell in a white bikini on the other side of the window.

_Julie. So she’s going for a morning swim, eh?  
_

Discarding his plate, Portman all but ran to the pool area. Though it was still morning, the pool was already getting a lot of action on this sunny August day in Las Vegas. Portman frantically scanned the crowd, desperate for Julie. But she vanished in the sea of copper bodies that thronged in and around the pool.

Over his shoulder, he heard limousine doors open and shut in front of the main entrance. The concierge stood on the pavement, ready to greet the hotel’s newest well-heeled arrivals.

“Welcome to the Mirage!”


	3. Chapter 3

After regrouping at the breakfast buffet, Portman made his way to the eighth floor. As he stepped off the elevator, it occurred to him that even if he knew nothing else about the woman formerly known as Julie Gaffney, he knew that she was staying on this floor, and he knew her room number.

Running a quick hand through his dark hair, he made the walk to her door. Even in that short distance, he could feel his pulse quicken, along with a bit of perspiration on his forehead. But he willed his nerves to calm. He had closed too many multimillion dollar deals and made too many powerful and lucrative connections to ever be intimidated by a woman.

Cool as a cucumber, he knocked on Julie's door.

Ten seconds later, he knocked again.

He then counted to fifteen before knocking again.

Then, another ten.

"Hey, bro."

Portman turned on his heel to see his colleague and frenemy, Dave Hawkins, emerge from the door opposite Julie's.

A Grosse Pointe native, Hawkins had made Portman's acquaintance at the University of Michigan. Tall, trim, and blue-eyed, Dave Hawkins combined a patrician's arrogance with a fratboy's jocularity. He reminded Portman of Adam Banks – only more extraverted.

_And more of a threat._

"Hey, buddy," Portman grinned back. "What's up?"

"I could ask you the same question," Hawkins replied, indicating Julie's door.

"Oh, just visiting a friend."

"All that knocking and no response? Either he's out, he's not much of a friend, or both."

"Heh, yeah," Portman agreed. "She's probably out."

" _She,_ is it?" Hawkins cocked an eyebrow. "That would explain the desperation."

Portman laughed amiably, taking care to deliver a short, sharp punch to the arm.

_That should leave a mark. The bastard._

"Oooh, hey there!" Hawkins grinned. "Been hitting the weights, Dean? You're packing a punch that you didn't before."

"New workout regimen," Portman explained. "I harden my knuckles by punching tools. You should try it sometime, Davey. All you need is a mirror."

"Such wit!" Hawkins beamed, retaliating with a painful clap to the arm.

But Portman decided to de-escalate this passive-aggressive exchange before it risked losing its passiveness.

"We probably should head down to the convention center."

Hawkins nodded.

"Lead the way, Dean."

The pair of hot-shot, thirty-something consultants began the walk down the burgundy carpet to the elevators – Dave Hawkins in a full charcoal suit, white shirt, and gold necktie; Dean Portman in a navy sport coat, open-collared white shirt, and pleated khakis.

Hawkins could not resist a sartorial jab.

"No tie, Dean?" He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "I hope the prospects downstairs won't hold that against you."

"I try to look professional, but real," Portman countered. "People trust that. Trust equals clients."

"Well, quite. The lobby, my good man," Hawkins instructed the lift attendant.

The attendant nodded and pushed the button for the lobby. As the elevator began its gentle descent, Hawkins continued the conversation.

"So, tell me about this friend of yours."

Portman grinned slightly, recognizing the principal weakness of Dave Hawkins. The man simply could not tolerate silence. He could never allow for a pause in conversation, and like an overzealous radio jockey, he filled dead air with dead words.

_Salesmanship ain't all about talking. A large part of it is knowing when to shut up._

But Portman decided to play along.

_Mustn't discourage a rival's weakness. Didn't Napoleon say something along those lines?_

"She's a friend from high school," Portman explained. "We haven't seen much of each other over the years, but we ran into each other last night at the hotel bar."

"And you know her room number."

"Imagine that."

"Ah, yes," Hawkins winked. "Discretion is the better part of valor."

"So how's Janice?" Portman asked out of the blue.

And with three simple words, he cut his rival's legs out from under him.

"That malevolent bitch," Hawkins seethed.

"Divorce is never pain-free, Dave. Believe me, I know."

"You know, Janus was the two-faced Roman god. I don't think I've ever met anyone who is more fittingly named than Janice."

"Different spelling, though," Portman teased.

"Irrelevant," Hawkins shot back. "I already gave her _everything_ in our marriage. How can she expect to get anything more from me in divorce? That's what I'd like to know."

The elevator pinged, and the attendant opened the grate.

"Have a nice day, gentlemen."

"Heh, thanks, kid," Portman chuckled. "It's shaping up to be one already."

The pair of businessmen stepped into the marble-floored lobby. Though the floor was red marble, they were surrounded by palm trees and other tropical plants that were beautifully manicured and neatly on display beneath an enormous glass dome. It amazed Portman that not even one speck of dirt ever slipped from the gardens and onto the immaculate floor.

"Try to put your Janice bitterness to the side, Dave. Clients hate a Negative Nancy. Or a Negative Nathan, for that matter."

"You're right, Dean," Hawkins agreed, straightening his tie. "That _fucking_ woman, though."

Portman sent up a mental prayer of thanksgiving for not being in possession of a football at that moment. If he had one, he would have found it mighty difficult not to spike it and do a touchdown dance.

"You're _better than this,_ Dave. Think positive!"

"Right, positive."

The pair of consultants stepped out into the blazing Vegas sun, and all but sprinted to the air-conditioned shuttle that was waiting to take PCF consultants, clients, and prospects to the hotel's convention center. As the shuttle gradually filled to capacity, Portman ruminated on the effects of air conditioning on the modern human being.

_It's really turned us into vampires. Can't stay out in that sun for too long or we burn._

And it wasn't a long trip to the convention center, either. It was all part of the hotel and casino complex that they were staying at. But even that short, otherwise walkable distance was made impossible by the punishing Nevada sun.

Dave Hawkins, true to form, could not tolerate the lull in conversation for long.

"You know, I've been reading a lot of Buddhist stuff lately. It's really helped me find my center. Without that, between work and the divorce…well, it's probably a good thing I don't own any semi-automatics."

"Buddhism?" Portman asked. "You, Dave Hawkins are really buying into that Eastern crap about wants creating suffering?"

"Heh, yeah. It kinda takes American business culture and shits on it."

Portman shrugged.

"Well, if that stuff gives you comfort, keep at it."

"But to be honest, the value that Buddhists place on silence is hard for me to relate to."

"That thought had occurred to me."

Hawkins gave Portman's arm another clap, but they were seated too close together for it to have picked up any velocity before contact.

* * *

_Ah, the convention floor. Like the floor of the New York Stock Exchange...only with more treachery._

Part stock exchange, part ballet, part religious revival, and part bullfight, the Annual Convention of the Pyramid Consulting Firm is a beautiful and intoxicating blood sport. Despite its dodgy name, the PCF attracts legions of desperate CEOs looking to turn their company's fortunes around before their board of directors can drop the axe on their jowly, sweaty corporate necks.

And like high-priced angels, the talent at PCF swoops down from the heavens to rescue these poor souls before their demonic shareholders can get hold of them.

Despite the PCF's claims of nurturing a collaborative and supportive environment, these angels are vicious competitors. They'll dance around each other in graceful, elegant fashion. They'll flatter, they'll laugh at any joke, and they'll even tell a few side-splitters of their own.

Then, they'll twist the knife with the most gracious of smiles.

Like ballerinas, they dance across the floor, enticing prospective clients with their charisma and their credentials. They pause for sustenance at one of the large, round tables that dot the convention floor like white polka dots, and they listen to motivational sermons from their brethren.

Dean Portman was due to deliver one of those sermons, but not today.

Then, armed with champagne flutes, they put their rivals down for a permanent nap with all the ruthless precision of a matador.

The elegant setting did not resemble the killing field that it was only because the effects of the character assassinations that transpired upon it would not be apparent until months later, when a PCF angel found itself with a list of prospective clients that wouldn't give him or her the time of day.

That's when PCF angels, unlike their Biblical counterparts, prove mortal.

In ten years, Dean Portman had seen many angels fall.

And he could not deny that he had felled many of them personally.

The gleeful eagerness with which any one of them would dispatch him if given the opportunity, however, prevented him from feeling any compunction.

_It's kill or be killed. If you want sympathy, look in the Dictionary between 'shit,' and 'syphilis.'_

As he moved between prospects, Portman kept a wary eye on the competition as they worked the floor. Smitty, Bri Vazquez, Dave Hawkins, and others were all out for his blood.

And he theirs.

Hawkins in particular had a spring to his step that Portman found troubling. The loquacious, soon-to-be-divorcee appeared to have recovered his swagger – possibly with the aid of the Buddha.

_Maybe I misjudged that fat Oriental fraud._

With a glass of Dom in hand, Dean Portman continued his grim, lucrative dance.

* * *

In the course of a single day, Dean Portman had acquired hundreds of prospects. He knew that he had brought his A-game that day, and when Dean Portman brought his A-game, the number of prospects who didn't become clients was very small indeed. On days like this, he mused about how much twelve hours of work had increased his net worth.

_More than I ever would've imagined on the South Side. That's for damn sure._

With the sound of vacuum cleaners on full blast and caterers scurrying to collect dirty dishes from the tables, Portman decided to call it a day.

Only a few prospects still remained, and if they were staying this late, it usually was only for the free food and booze.

_Not the kind of accounts that are worth my time._

"Hey, Dave!" He called to Hawkins.

"Yeah, bro?"

"Wanna join me for a nightcap?"

Hawkins briefly scanned the floor. He had gotten good vibes earlier in the day from two of the remaining prospects, but he knew that he hadn't quite sealed the deal.

"Or you can rummage for scraps," Portman shrugged. "Your call, bro."

Hawkins proceeded to make a show of checking his Rolex.

"I suppose it _is_ getting late," he shrugged. "Sure, might as well grab some Nyquil."

"I overheard some of your banter," Portman began as they made their way to the exit. "You totally killed it."

"Thank you, Dean. And I daresay you earned yourself a ticket to next year's dance."

"You're too kind."

The pair continued to make amiable small talk as they stepped out into the night. The daytime scorcher had given way to a cool desert evening, and Portman and Hawkins enjoyed an easy stroll back to the hotel.

The desert calm outside gave way to the hum of human activity as they entered the hotel lobby. Already, the pair of consultants could hear the din of chatter from the barroom. It was notably busier than it had been the previous night. Whereas only a few men had sought the comfort of working girls on that night, many more were now seeking the comfort of strong spirits.

_The tables can be such a cruel mistress,_ Portman figured.

With no room to sit at the bar, Hawkins and Portman took their neat scotches over to a small, candlelit table for two.

"I may be getting a divorce," Hawkins declared. "But don't get any ideas about sticking your tongue down my throat."

"Heh, don't flatter yourself, bro."

That's when he saw her.

_Julie._

As Hawkins took his seat, Portman stood, jaw agape, as Julie laughed out loud at something that the older man sitting next to her said. Julie and the Geezer were flanked by two other couples at one of those U-shaped bench tables. The three women were all considerably younger and more attractive than their male companions.

_Let's call Julie's beau 'Geezer 1,' then._

"Uh, bro?" Hawkins spoke up. "If I offended you just now, I'll let you kiss me. No tongue though."

Portman shook his head rapidly, as though recovering from a stupor. He had worn the arrogance he had acquired that day like a suit of armor. Now, Hawkins could sense that his rival's defenses had melted away. He grinned malevolently at the opening.

"Ok, tongue if you insist," Hawkins continued. "Just don't ask me to fake enjoying it."

"Right, right," Portman muttered, sitting down.

"You alright, bro? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Julie was in fact wearing another one of her sexy white dresses. And she definitely had a knack for appearing and disappearing like an apparition.

_And what's with that little tiara she's wearing?_

Hawkins turned to examine the source of Portman's disquiet.

"Heh, lucky bastards," he chortled. "Those are some tasty little cupcakes, eh?"

Portman's eyes narrowed.

"That one in the tiara would fillet you alive. Then you'd thank her for it."

"Gives good head, you say?"

"I said _fillet,_ you jackass. Not _fellate."_

Hawkins shrugged.

"Well, regardless, she looks too busy to wield a knife or a tongue at the moment."

Portman downed his tumbler of Glenfiddich in four deep gulps before getting up.

"You want another?" He asked Hawkins.

"I haven't even started mine yet."

"Right. I'll be back in a jiffy."

Hawkins raised a puzzled eyebrow as he watched Portman shuffle away.

_This guy committed what amounts to mass murder today without batting an eye. Then he loses his shit over a few pretty girls? Too bad the broads at the convention were such dogs..._

"Ah, Dean!"

Portman's eyes widened upon hearing Julie's syrupy call to him. This was one of those moments when he appreciated being less than fully hydrated.

He looked to see Julie wave him over, beckoning him with that silky, elegant hand that could caress or maul a man into complete and utter servitude.

"Come on! Join us!"

Summoning his every last reserve of casual nonchalance, Portman held up an index finger, signaling her to wait a minute before returning to the bar.

_I am_ not _facing that woman unarmed._


	4. Chapter 4

Armed with a fresh tumbler of Glenfiddich, Portman returned to Julie's table. Along with the white-clad femme fatale in the tiara, there were two scintillating, exotic women who appeared to be in their late-twenties-to-early-thirties. One looked to be of Filipina descent, and wore a black slip dress; and the other, a Latina, wore a flame-colored sheath dress.

The three gorgeous dames each had a fat, disgusting old guy for company.

_But at least they dress well,_ Portman conceded, looking over their Armani and Cucinelli suits.

"Come on," Julie implored her groupies. "Scoot, scoot! Make room!"

The Three Geezers scooted as much as their girth would allow, and the Filipina and Latina ended up on the laps of Geezers 2 and 3. Geezer 1 had attempted to put Julie on his, but she balked. These maneuvers yielded only tiny slivers of leather on each end of the bench.

"Perhaps you should pull up a chair, Dean," Julie suggested.

"Right," Portman set his scotch down. "I'll be back in a minute."

Naturally, he returned to the table that he had been sharing with Dave Hawkins, but found that the chair he intended to grab was occupied by an olive-skinned goddess who was stroking Hawkins' hand across the table. Upon closer inspection, Portman realized that this lady was the sumptuous Brunette One from the previous evening.

"Hey, bro. Listen, don't wait up."

"Perish the thought," Portman grumbled, turning to find a free chair.

Dejected gamblers continued to pile into the barroom, snapping up seats and prompting the auxiliary bar in the far corner to open with three highly dexterous barmaids. Portman continued to search in vain for an unoccupied chair, and finally gave up when the throng in the barroom became so massive that he struggled to even move.

With a resigned sigh, he wriggled and shuffled his way back to Julie's table, only to discover it abandoned. Busboys were hard at work cleaning it up, moving swiftly to create a suitable space for some of the guests to get off their feet.

"Of course," Portman sighed again.

Desperate to escape the stale air and the body heat of the barroom, he made his way out to the veranda, and was greeted with cool desert air that provided instant relief. Looking about the lonely veranda and its immaculate garden, Portman was amazed that no one else wanted to take in the night air. Vegas nights were as heavenly as Vegas days were hellish.

Reaching into the breast pocket of his sport coat, he fished out his butane lighter and his monogramed cigarette case.

" _DP? Where's the second guy, then?"_

That was the question that Portman's favorite comfort women would always ask when they saw his initials.

He chuckled as he opened the pewter case.

But as he raised a cigarette to his lips, he checked himself.

_This place is too beautiful for me to defile it with cigarette smoke._

He put his smoking paraphernalia away and took in his surroundings. The garden on the veranda was essentially a tropical rainforest, and like the garden in the lobby, the pathways were utterly uncorrupted by dirt.

_So much beauty. So much effort. And you were gonna leave a cigarette butt here? Shame, Dean Portman. Shame._

He took a deep breath of crisp desert air, absorbing the scents of peony and jasmine, and began to stroll along the veranda. Looking up at the night sky, he was disappointed by the lack of stars.

_Well, they don't call it the City of Lights for nothing._

As he rounded the corner, he saw her.

_Julie._

There she was, seated on the stone balustrade, one bronze leg dangling, and the other bent into a triangle. Partially illuminated by a spotlight, she looked like a beautiful work of art.

"Julie," he called to her.

She followed the sound with her eyes, and upon seeing him, brought her leg down and swung to face him on the balustrade.

"Hey, stranger," she grinned.

"Ha! _I'm_ the stranger?!"

"I've been feeling _distinctly_ neglected by you."

_"I'm_ neglectful?" He scoffed. "Uh, correct me if I'm wrong, but _you're_ the one who left _me_ this morning."

"I can't help it if you like to sleep in like a fratboy," Julie countered. _"Some of us_ have more productive things to do with our day."

_That beautiful, sassy bitch._

"Oh yeah?" Portman demanded. "And what was so productive and important that you couldn't even leave a note saying 'Hey Dean, thanks for the fuck and everything, but don't wait up'?"

The Lioness flashed a warning with her eyes.

"Sorry," Portman offered. "But between you leaving me, first at your room, then at the barroom, I'm just not seeing how _I'm_ the one being neglectful."

Julie treated him to a quick panty flash as she spread her legs before crossing them. Then, turning slightly, she made them seem even longer by facing Portman in her profile.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek.

"It's late," she declared. "My friends wanted to go to bed. You can't blame them for that. I figured you'd be able to find a chair in under twenty minutes, but obviously I overestimated you."

He chewed on his cheek again, this time drawing blood. She always knew where his buttons were, and seldom failed to push them when she felt he deserved it.

"You're not even gonna ask me about my pretty little tiara?"

"Ok, I give. What's up with your pretty little tiara?"

Julie turned and gave Portman the brightest of her bright smiles – that kind, sweet, all-American princess smile that most people had associated with her back at Eden Hall. But Portman knew the bad girl underneath, both then and now.

"I bought this with my poker winnings," she announced, brandishing the tiara.

"You're kidding."

"Nope," she giggled. "I'm the only person who can take a trip to Vegas and make a profit."

"Heh, whatever you say, babe."

Turning to face him directly, she crossed her legs again before extending her tiara toward him.

"Wanna check it out?"

"Sure, why not?"

He approached her and gently took the tiara, inspecting it in his hands.

_Damn, Julie must be a real cardsharp._

The tiara featured an alternating pattern of diamond and peridot gems– enough to be obviously expensive, but not enough to be gaudy.

"Peridot," he observed. "That's this month’s birthstone."

"And?"

He paused, unsure of what she was trying to draw out of him.

"I'm drawing a blank, babe."

Julie snatched the tiara back.

"Ass."

"What?"

"How hard is it to say 'happy birthday'?"

Portman's eyes widened as he realized his mistake.

"I'm so sorry, Julie. Happy birthday! So is that what brings you to Vegas? A little birthday celebration?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Of course! How could I forget? August 15th: the birth of Napoleon Bonaparte and Julie Gaffney. Two highly compelling figures who like to be in charge and cause trouble."

Julie rolled her eyes at the description.

"Wanting things _done right_ only causes trouble for morons who can't handle it," she huffed, placing the tiara back in her luscious blonde locks.

_If Marie Antoinette and the Marquis de Sade had a daughter…_

Portman had a decidedly masculine interest in history, with his enthusiasm for war and revolution. Given the passion of the French for these subjects, much of his historical frame of reference was French.

"Yeah…I only remembered August 15th because of Napoleon," he acknowledged. "I admit, I'm kind of a fanboy. Napoleon, Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, hell, even Genghis Khan…that's why the world's as fucked up as it is today. We haven't got any of those boys to come in and straighten it out."

"It's _the boys_ who fucked it up in the first place," Julie protested.

"Heh, good point."

Portman extended a hand and helped her off the balustrade, her fingers icy to the touch. He quickly patted her arms, working his way up to her bare shoulders and discovered that she was cold all over.

_That's what you get for walking around in underwear._

He slid his sport coat over her shoulders, drawing an appreciative grin.

"Thanks."

"You shouldn't walk around looking like that," he warned. "Chilly nights aside, there are a lotta sick fucks out there who see a hot piece of ass in a tiny wrapper."

"I do _not_ need your autobiography, Dean."

Portman laughed out loud. He had been worrying that his beautiful ball-buster had gone soft on him, and was delighted to be wrong.

But ball-buster or not, Julie appeared ready for some tenderness, and she leaned into Portman's shoulder as they strolled the veranda. He wrapped an arm around her waist, and identified the exotic plants in the garden to her with his free hand.

"Since when were you into nature?" She asked.

"I've stayed here before," he explained. "Every once in a while, I'll run into a landscaper and pick his brain."

"Oh."

"What about you?" He asked. "Has the Mirage been graced with Julie Gaffney's…"

"Julie Mitchell's."

"…presence before?"

She shrugged.

"These casino-hotels are all basically the same to me."

"Damn, woman! How much of a gambler _are_ you?"

"Enough of one to cover all my losses."

Portman chuckled.

"I've always had a knack for statistics," Julie continued. "That's basically what poker comes down to. Calculating your odds and making the appropriate decision."

"And reading other people," Portman added.

"Sure, if you don't know how numbers work," Julie shrugged. "The whole pop-psychology, poker face stuff is all a bunch of crap made up by people who can't add, subtract, and divide. They think it makes them sound clever."

"When really they're just putting a massive bull's-eye on their forehead."

"Exactly."

"So...are you, like, a _professional_ gambler?"

"I know you're this big businessman, Dean, but could we _not_ talk about money?"

"Hey, I'm just trying to figure out what you do for a living, Little Miss Enigma."

"And the subject _bores me,"_ Julie declared, separating from Portman.

"Right," he said under his breath.

If one thing about Julie hadn't changed in fifteen years, it was the fact that boredom made this passionate, red-blooded woman as cold as a New England winter. None of her regular boyfriends at Eden Hall were ever able to keep her interested for long, and when she went cold, she'd go to Dean Portman to warm back up. And he never failed to bring the heat.

He grinned at the wild memories that he shared with her.

"If money bores you, would you rather talk about that time we fucked under the bleachers while the varsity football team practiced?"

Julie gave Portman a slap, but couldn't resist a laugh.

"Or," she countered. "How 'bout that time I broke one of your ribs and you had to pretend it was a hockey injury?"

"Oh, God," Portman shuddered. "You and your damned legs. No wonder I prefer it when you're facedown."

Julie giggled as she interlocked her fingers with Portman's.

"And _I_ prefer a lover who likes to live dangerously."

"Whaddaya have in mind?"

"Let's go to your room."

"Works for me," he agreed, ushering her back indoors.

* * *

"Here we are," Portman announced, opening the door to his hotel room.

Julie took two steps in, then did a quick scope of her surroundings.

"Where's your Jacuzzi?" She demanded.

"I haven't got one."

"Then this isn't gonna work."

Before Portman could respond, he felt Julie damn near yank his arm out of his socket, tugging him down the hall to her own room. As they stopped in front of her door, he remembered that fat old guy who had been sitting next to her during her outing in the barroom with friends.

"Uh, are you sure that Shamu the Killer Grandpa is cool with all this?"

"What?"

"That dude you were with earlier tonight," Portman explained. "He cool with you hooking up with somebody else?"

Julie rolled her eyes as she slid her keycard.

" _Shamu_ is in fact George Neufield," she announced, ushering Portman in.

The name sounded vaguely familiar to him, and Julie obviously expected him to recognize it. But try as he did, he found himself unable to place it.

"And I'm sure you'll tell me _why_ the name 'George Neufield' is important."

She looked at him as if he was that dumb kid who kept jamming a wet paper clip into the outlet.

"George Neufield: Hollywood Mega-Producer?" Julie asked. "Do you _really_ need me to list his movie titles? It's only about half the major releases of the last thirty years."

"Ooooh, _that_ George Neufield."

"Anyway, George is a friend. And no, he is _not_ a 'fuck-friend,' you sick freak."

Julie cringed at the thought of having that giant mound of sweaty flesh on top of her.

"Well...that only raises more questions than it answers."

At that, the Lioness returned. There was to be no more talking.

She stripped off the sport coat she had borrowed from him, and tossed it to the floor, revealing herself in a white dress that left precious little to the imagination.

_Boobs, legs, bronze skin…and boobs. Boooobs. Perfect, playful pound puppies._

With an instinct for his weakness, Julie closed the distance and seized his face with both hands, driving it down to her chest.

"Lick."

This time, she didn't need to stomp him to get him to obey.

Her breathing began to quicken as he licked and nuzzled. Lowering her hands, she backtracked to the wall, allowing him to pin her against it. Then, as he continued to nuzzle, she undid his belt and dropped his khakis. He nibbled harder, and painfully. She retaliated by dropping his boxer briefs.

No longer with any layers to protect him from the cat's paws, Portman winced as he felt Julie grab him.

_I'll be gentler if you'll be gentle._

To his relief – and surprise – she took him gently by her silky hands. Running them up to the tip of his shaft, she formed a hole with her thumbs and got to work.

With his face still buried, he reached around and felt for her zipper. This dress was a tighter fit than the one she had been wearing the night before, and the zipper didn't quite glide as he expected it to. He alternated in his assaults – pulling the zipper for a stretch, then nipping at her tits.

Pulling, nipping, pulling, nipping, pulling, nipping.

He grew harder and harder in anticipation of her nudity, and she picked up the pace down below, struggling to hang on.

_Definitely a two-handed job,_ he thought immodestly – but accurately.

"Uuuh…uuhh."

Recognizing his 'warning bell' she pushed him off her chest and brought her face down, opening wide just in time.

"Mmmm," she purred. "Tasty."

Looking down at her dress, she giggled as she stood back up. Though unzipped, the dress still clung to her body.

"Couldn't even get me undressed before popping off," she teased.

"You work too quickly."

"Do I? Well, I slowdown in water."

"What, we're going for a swim now?"

"Tub," she answered, indicating her Jacuzzi. "Get it started and get in there. I'll make a batch of margaritas."

"Is that an order, or a request?"

Julie shot him a look of queenly scorn.

"A man with no pants is in no position to talk back to me."

"Right, right."

He crossed the cedar floor and climbed up the marble steps in nothing but his dress shirt to fill the tub. As he bent forward, his shirt rode up, prompting Julie to nibble her lower lip.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Portman awoke to a faint feeling of pressure – as though someone was sitting on his face. Not a quite a grown man, but more like a persistent toddler. His hangovers were getting milder, an observation that simultaneously relieved and worried him.

_Yep. I’m definitely going on the wagon when I get back to New York.  
_

Reaching across the bed for Julie, he discovered an empty space.

_Shocker.  
_

But as he heard the sound of running water, he grinned.

_She’s not slipping away this time.  
_

He threw the satin sheets off his naked body and made the short walk to the bathroom. Stepping inside, he felt like he had walked into a sauna. But he could see clearly enough to make his way to the elongated shower stall. Long enough to provide a bath, and _definitely_ long enough for Dean Portman’s purposes, the stall was vast and inviting. The perfect Las Vegas shower stall.

As he slid open the glazed shower door, he was greeted with visions of beauty.

There she was, Julie Gaffney – _fuck her new name –_ standing in the stall with nothing but hot, clear water to cloak her stunning figure. With her summer tan covering her from head-to-toe, she looked more goddess than demoness; and Dean Portman was hopelessly addicted to both forms.

Sensing an intruder, she turned with a start.

But her worried expression gave way to a seductive grin as she identified her visitor.

“Well, good morning.”

“And good morning to you,” Portman grinned. 

“I trust you’re here for work, and not _merely_ pleasure.”

She thrust a tube of shower gel into his hand.

“Work would _be_ my pleasure, ma’am.”

He put a dollop of berry-scented gel into his hand, hunched over, and got to work – beginning with her feet. They were remarkably smooth, delicate, and youthful. With red toenail polish and just the faintest of sandal tan lines, they were a testament to health and vitality. He massaged the gel into them and felt like he was caressing silk, making a mental note of the gel’s name so he could pick up a tube for himself.

After she rinsed off the gel with a few shakes in the shallow pool of water, she allowed him to continue his work.

He worked his way up the ankles, and to her long, muscular calves. Bronze and toned, they were the first hint of the power and strength that ran through her body. Then, up the knees to the equally toned thighs – a perfect blend of silky flesh and raw power. Feminine and dangerous.

He went further up, cupping her smooth, shapely ass and earning himself a click of the tounge as he lingered.

“You’re supposed to be _working,”_ she teased.

“Right, right.”

Saving her pussy for later, he massaged the fruity gel into her torso and abdomen – discovering the same combination of silkiness and firmness that he had experienced down below. As he got closer to her tits, he began to harden in anticipation. With a dollop of gel in each hand, he got to work tracing the outline of her breasts before moving in.

She betrayed her own excitement with ragged breathing as he closed in on the twin bull’s eyes.

“Mmmm,” she purred as he massaged them with his thumbs. “Why can’t you _always_ be this gentle?”

“Heh, you don’t play so nicely yourself.”

Before she could reply, she felt him lick the fruity suds off her nipples.

 _And that’s why they call ‘em “chesticles,”_ he thought cheekily.

“Mmm, Dean.”

He _loved_ the sound of his name on her voice – especially her pleasure voice. That alone was enough to harden him further. He moved further north, massaging the toned, bronze arms, before moving up to the shoulders. Like other parts of her body, Julie’s shoulders revealed her strength – she even had deltoids that were visible.

Not quite visible enough to be off-putting, but Dean Portman never found muscles on a woman to be off-putting anyway.

_They can take it as well as they can give it, then.  
_

As he began washing her neck, he sensed vulnerability in her for the first time as his mitts grasped her dainty, swanlike neck. He could crush her windpipe like an insect.

And a dark part of him wanted to do just that.

“No, too tight,” she protested.

“Sorry,” he eased-up at once.

His hands became gentler as they washed and cupped her face.

After rinsing off, she turned to face him. His work completed, she owed him payment.

Closing the short distance, she grasped the back of his dark, wet head and pulled him in for a kiss. Perhaps sensing aggressiveness when he had held her by the neck, her kiss was gentle, sweet, and unprovocative – her teeth merely brushing his lower lip as they parted, as opposed to crushing it.

He felt a submissiveness in her that was uncharacteristic.

Deciding that a frontal assault was safe, he grabbed her by the waist, pinned her to the shower wall, and entered as her powerful legs coiled around him like a pair of pythons. As he pounded her with thrusts, she squeezed, making herself even tighter, and driving him crazy.

She winced as he went in deeper.

He was long, hard, and dominating.

She squeezed tighter still, drawing a slight gasp.

Driving his fingernails into her soft flesh, he pulled her back before slamming her against the wall.

“Ahh!” She squealed. “You think you can hurt me? Hurt me, then.”

He slammed her against the wall again, drawing another squeal as she strengthened her hold over his rib cage. Things were about to get dangerous, so he picked up the pace. His own considerable arousal was almost irrelevant. At this point, survival was the priority.

“Yes, yes,” she panted.

She taxed his reserves of oxygen further by seizing him in a long, painful kiss.

He picked up his furious assault as though his life depended on it.

Her breathing quickened as she formed a pair of scissors with her calves.

She screamed as he slammed her again – more violently than before.

He went in deeper, in desperate pursuit of the only thing that could set him free.

She thrust his face into her chest.

Scarcely able to even breathe, let alone nuzzle, he directed his entire will, his _entire being_ toward the struggle down below.

At last, he felt her legs slacken.

He was closing in.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she panted. “Ohhh…. _yes!”_

The scissors parted, and steamy oxygen filled his lungs just as he came.

She released his hold completely and slid down the wall of the stall before landing on her feet.

“You’re evil,” he declared.

“Aww, Dean,” she smiled sweetly. “I only give what I know you can handle.”

“You’re evil,” he repeated. “And I’m _insane._ I actually wanna do that again.”

“Heh, how ‘bout we get cleaned up, first? You missed a spot, anyway.”

* * *

 His hangover cured by steam and exhilaration, Portman walked hand-in-hand with Julie as they made their way down to the breakfast buffet. This time, he wore a pale blue dress shirt underneath his navy sport coat, along with a pair of pleated gray slacks. She wore a long white blouse that almost completely covered her khaki shorts, along with a chic pair of rose-tinted glasses.

 As they arrived at the buffet tables, he released her hand, but tenderly placed his mitt on her waist before kissing her forehead. To the outside observer, the violent struggle in the shower would have seemed completely alien to this cute and affectionate couple.

They re-grouped at the dining area on the veranda, with Portman immediately regretting the presence of his sport coat. But with a blue shirt, he knew that he had to keep it on, lest he risk visible sweat stains for colleagues, clients, and prospects to observe.

Most of the tables were filled to capacity, but Smitty and Hawkins had one all to themselves.

_Great. Just great.  
_

He had been hoping to meet some of Julie’s well-heeled Vegas friends, especially the illustrious George Neufield. Having a powerful Hollywood mega-producer as a contact would be a major feather in his cap. But the only table with any room was occupied by two of Portman’s PCF frenemies.

“Hey, guys,” he greeted the pair affably.

Hawkins and Smitty offered polite murmurs of greeting.

Whereas Dave Hawkins and Dean Portman actually looked like their thirty-three years, Jack Smith, with his uncracked face and his strawberry blond hair, did not look a day over seventeen – despite technically being a month older than Portman.

After setting his plate down, Portman pulled a whicker dining chair out for Julie, then gently pushed her in after she took her seat.

“Gentlemen,” he said, taking his seat. “This is Julie Ga… _Mitchell._ Julie Mitchell. She’s a friend of mine from high school. Julie, meet Dave Hawkins and Jack Smith; we all call him ‘Smitty’.”

“A pleasure,” she offered, observing their bloody marys. “Heh, wild night, last night. Eh?”

“I’ll say!” Smitty enthused, earning a Hawkins elbow to the ribs.

 _“Discretion,”_ Hawkins hissed.

In addition to their separate hairs of the dog, the two consultants hid their bloodshot eyes behind dark black glasses. Despite Hawkins’ newfound prudishness, he had been recounting in explicit detail his night with the Brunette One. Or at least the explicit bits he could remember. But with a woman now present, Dave Hawkins had re-discovered the virtue of discretion.

“These are virgins anyway,” he declared, brandishing his boozy cocktail. “And they’ve got plenty of vitamins.”

“So you guys are high school friends?” Smitty asked.

“That’s right,” Julie answered. “Eden Hall: Class of 2000.”

“Heh, the one perk of being born in 1982,” Smitty chuckled. “Our class year? The New Friggin’ Millenium, bitches.”

“That’s not the _only_ good thing about 1982,” Hawkins protested. “Back then, America had a president who didn’t treat his ED by stomping on businesses.”

“I guess,” Smitty shrugged. “Obama sure can give a good speech though.”

“So can his comrade Fidel,” Hawkins scoffed. “And he’s just as good for business.”

Portman grinned smugly. He long regarded the occupant of the White House as a pompous buffoon, but at least the Democrat gave him a needle with which to prick his rival.

“That sounds an _awful_ lot like an excuse, Dave. Any businessman worth his salt can weather any storm. He produces results, not excuses. And presidents come and go.”

“Of course,” Hawkins agreed quickly before turning to Julie. “Sorry to bore you with politics, Julie. “

“Not at all. You’d bore me even without your political opinions.”

Smitty coughed as his bloody mary came back up, while Portman just managed to suppress a satisfied grin. Hawkins, meanwhile, looked like a deer in the headlights.

As the uncomfortable silence hung in the air, Julie looked around the veranda.

“Oh. Look, Dean – some seats have just opened up by George.”

Portman followed her gaze and saw George Neufield holding court with a few acolytes. He could hardly see the Hollywood kingpin past the mountain of cash in his head.

“You go ahead, Julie,” he replied. “But could you save me a seat, please? I’ll be with you in a minute.”

As Julie nodded, Portman got to his feet to pull out her chair.

She grabbed her plate and made the short journey across the stoned veranda to join her friends as the three consultants looked on in awe. As Julie got settled, Smitty broke the silence back at their own table.

“I like your friend, Dean.”

“So do I,” Hawkins hastened to agree, with no trace of sincerity.

“She’s a killer,” Portman agreed, resuming his seat.

“So is she like…an actress?” Hawkins inquired. “I’m a pretty big film buff, but I can't recall seeing her in anything.”

"Maybe she was a child actress?” Smitty suggested. “She kinda looks like a grownup version of that pretty girl in _Rookie of the Year.”_

“Heh, she kinda does,” Portman agreed. “That was a good kids’ movie. It woulda been even better if they hadn’t made it about those twits on the North Side.”

”And having the Mets as villains _definitely_ doesn’t work,” Smitty added.

“Well, if that’s her, then it’s pretty presumptuous for a child actress who hasn’t worked since the early ‘90s to go over and take a seat next to George Neufield,” Hawkins declared. “It takes a lot of nerve to approach the King of Hollywood and ask for work when you’re a nobod...eee!”

Portman sent his loafer into his shin from across the table.

“Sorry,” Hawkins offered. “Any friend of Dean Portman's is a ‘somebody’ by nature.”

“That’s better.”

“Seriously, though,” Smitty spoke up. “What _does_ your friend do?”

_She fucks me to within an inch of my life and leaves me begging for more.  
_

“I uh…actually don’t know."

Hawkins arched an eyebrow over his dark frames.

“And you say you’re friends?”

 _“Intimate_ friends,” Portman insisted. “So intimate, in fact, she’s about to introduce me to George Neufield. Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I can’t keep them waiting.”

He grabbed his plate and raced toward Julie’s table before his frenemies could even say “goodbye.”

 _Maybe Julie’s_ real _friends could give me some clues._


	6. Chapter 6

As Portman approached George Neufield’s table, he noticed two empty seats, and took the one directly opposite the Hollywood mega producer. Julie had boldly taken her seat right next to Neufield, and was commanding his undivided attention. After setting his plate down, Portman trained his keenly observant eyes directly on the pair.

Julie appeared relaxed and genial, her smile gracious and persistent. Portman couldn’t sense any romantic attraction from her.

_And why the hell would there be?  
_

Although Neufield stood at six-two and had a full head of brown hair, Portman estimated that the producer’s weight was well north of 250 pounds. His gray blazer was wrinkled, and the open collar of his white dress shirt revealed an abundance of saggy skin.

But Portman had been around long enough to see plenty of beautiful women go for physically unappealing men. Money and power was far more attractive than blue eyes and chiseled features to some women. But Portman never felt that Julie was _one of those_ women.

If Julie’s gestures and expressions conveyed sex-free chumminess, Neufield’s hard, dark eyes betrayed lust…and even a tinge of anger. A powerful man like George Neufield was not used to being denied. But the corners of his lips curved upward, indicating an effort to appear agreeable.

Before George Neufield could even utter a word to him, Dean Portman had already decided that he disliked the man.

_Still, he could have his uses.  
_

“Ah, Dean!” Julie beamed, turning back to face Neufield. “George, this is my friend, Dean Portman. Dean, George Neufield.”

At once, Portman could feel an experienced and cynical pair of eyes size him up as Neufield faced him.

“A pleasure,” Neufield offered flatly.

“The pleasure’s all mine, Mr. Neufield,” Portman said breezily.

Neufield’s expression lightened, but he declined to offer first name terms to his visitor.

“So you’re another friend of Julie’s?” He asked. “I figured that a handsome young man such as yourself was her partner.”

Before Portman could reply, Julie spoke up.

“In a way, he kind of is.”

Portman was shocked, but he fought it. It took every ounce of his self-control to keep his expression neutral. Neufield was still probing him, and Portman could not afford to look surprised by what Julie was saying.

“He’s been by my side since high school; he was my defenseman in hockey, my partner, my friend…my advisor. I’ve never made a move without consulting him.”

“Really?”

Now, Portman had to suppress a grin. Neufield was impressed. After all, how could a man with such sway over a woman like Julie Mitchell _not_ be impressive?

“Julie is too generous,” Portman offered benignly. “But she’s a friend, and she’s enough of a friend to follow good advice.”

“And what is it you _do,_ Dean? Aside from advise our Julie?”

_‘Dean,’ not ‘Mr. Portman.’ Go with it, man.  
_

“Well, George…”

Portman paused to see if Neufield would correct him. When the producer failed to offer any protest, Portman continued.

“I am a senior consultant at PCF. My philosophy on business and on life is very simple: nothing is ever beyond repair. Consulting is what I do, and Julie is kind enough to let me consult even in my spare time.”

Neufield revealed a set of perfectly capped, white teeth.

“Well, Dean, I don’t have much of a business need for your services; but I know people who do. And who knows, maybe you _could_ do something for me.”

For a split second, Neufield cast a sideways glance toward Julie.

 “Next time you’re in LA, please look me up,” he concluded.

The two men exchanged business cards, indicating that the meeting was over. As Neufield and his entourage got to their feet, Julie and Portman rose to bid them farewell – Julie with air kisses and Portman with handshakes.

Now alone, Julie and Portman resumed their seats.

“That was some Grade-A bullshit, Julie. You sure you’re not a consultant at a rival firm?”

Julie chuckled.

“Oh, no. Lying to people is just a hobby of mine, not my profession.”

But as Portman remembered Neufield’s creepy glance, he forgot about Julie’s little dig.

“Did I just pimp you out?” He asked.

“George appeared to think so, didn’t he?”

At that, Portman felt his blood begin to boil. Julie reached across the table and placed a reassuring hand over his.

“It’s fine, Dean. I never have, and I never will. Not with _him,_ anyway. But if he thinks you’re the one who can _finally_ hook him up, he’ll introduce you to some really big wheels. Big enough for you to retire at 40, if that’s what you want.”

Portman smiled in wonder. Fifteen years after going their separate ways, here was Julie doing what she could to help him. The old goalie and the old defenseman had been partners in crime at Eden Hall – both on and off the ice. But Portman had never been able to shake the feeling that he was merely Julie’s boy toy, for use whenever she got bored with her _real_ boyfriends. He could always be her plaything, but never her equal – never her partner.

Did she see things differently?

“Too stunned by my tactical brilliance to say ‘thank you’?” Julie teased.

“Oh, right! Thank you, Julie – really. You ‘did me a solid,’ as we say back East.”

“No problem. And if you ever wanna return the favor, hit me up when you visit George. I live in LA too.”

Portman was taken aback by this.

“You sound like you’re leaving Vegas soon. Are you?”

“Tomorrow,” Julie nodded. “But we’ve got all day today,” she added with an affectionate hand squeeze.

Portman sighed.

“I’m sorry, Julie. But I have to deliver the keynote at the PCF Convention today. I won’t be free until the evening.”

She released his hand with a slight shrug.

“You gotta do what you gotta do.”

“Can I see you tonight?”

“I’ll probably be out with some of the girls,” she shrugged again. “But I guess I gotta go to bed at some point. Sure, stop by.”

The pair rose to their feet. Portman placed his hands on Julie’s hips and drew her close.

“I’ll see you tonight, then,” he declared before kissing her lips.

As he had throughout their time together at Eden Hall, Portman briefly considered adding “I love you,” but thought better of it.

* * *

  _October, 1997_  

 Dean Portman did not shock easily. But when he slammed his locker door shut and turned to discover Connie Moreau standing just inches away from him, he couldn’t help but gasp.

“Jesus, Moreau – you scared the shit out of me!”

“We have a problem,” Connie deadpanned.

Connie Moreau may have stood at only an even five feet, and her doe-like brown eyes, and her generous smile may have oozed sweetness; but the Velvet Hammer could be remarkably businesslike at times.

“And by ‘we,’ do you really mean the royal ‘I’?” Portman countered.

Connie glared at him.

“Ok,” he threw up his hands in surrender. “What is it?”

“It’s Julie.”

“Ah.”

Portman could not deny that something _was_ wrong with the Ducks’ goalie. The Cat’s famously swift glove had become awfully sluggish, and the team had hemorrhaged goals during their season opener the week prior. Were it not for the Ducks’ prolific offense, they would have begun their season with a loss.

“She’s pining away like some fisherman’s wife over Scooter,” Connie explained. “It’s messing with her head, and her head is messing with her game. I – scratch that – _the team_ needs you to go visit her and give her a good time so her mopeyness won’t keep dragging me down.”

“Heh, Connie Moreau: always putting the team’s needs ahead of her own.”

“Yeah, well, in this case the team’s needs and my own needs happen to be exactly the same. So take care of them!”

_God, she can be so pushy.  
_

“My mom is gonna be out of town this week,” Connie continued. “So Charlie and I will be spending the weekend at my house. That leaves you and Julie with all the privacy that you need.”

Portman’s eyebrows nearly hit his bandana.

True, he had always had a thing for Julie, and he had been so embarrassingly obvious about it that the entire team knew it. But Julie had shot him down in brutal fashion at the Junior Goodwill Games, then she took up with Scooter Vanderbilt during the Ducks’ freshman year at Eden Hall. With Scooter having graduated, loyal Julie missed her boyfriend terribly.

“But she’s taken,” Portman protested.

“Hey, whatever happens in the dorms, _stays_ in the dorms. Like Vegas.”

The bell indicating next period rang, so Connie knew that she had to wrap this up.

“Look, the team needs you. I need you. Hell, _Julie_ needs you. Just keep her company. Whatever happens, happens. And it may be that _nothing_ happens. Just be there for Julie…pleeease?”

And with that long ‘please,’ the businesslike Velvet Hammer gave way to the doe-like Connie.

Nobody with a beating heart ever stood a chance against that.

Later that day, as the Ducks began filing out of their locker room, Portman approached Julie.

“Sup, Cat.”

“Oh. Hey, Dean.”

“Wanna hang out?”

“Uh, sure. Why not?” Julie shrugged.

“I’d invite you over to my dorm, but…”

“Your room is a complete horror show.”

Portman chuckled.

“Hey, most of that horror is Fulton’s doing.”

Julie rolled her eyes, but her smile indicated that she was amused.

“I’m sure it is,” she replied. “Well, I guess you can come to my dorm. Connie is already leaving campus with Charlie.”

Portman noticed the disapproval in Julie’s voice and felt his confidence waver.

“Hey, if you’d rather hang some place public, that’s cool,” he offered.

Upon seeing her smile, he knew that he was in the clear.

“Oh, no – that’s not what I was thinking. You can come over. It was just Connie and Charlie,” she explained, stepping out into the autumn sun. “I still haven’t gotten over the fact that they’re like a real couple now.”

Portman nodded in understanding. The love triangle between Charlie Conway, Connie Moreau, and Guy Germaine had come close to tearing the team apart at the seams. Charlie and Guy were officially ‘cool’ with each other, but an underlying tension between the two had lingered, and it rippled out to the rest of the team.

“Exactly why you never date a teammate,” Julie chortled.

“Heh, yeah.”

_This is just one friend chillin’ with another friend. The fact that you saw potential for…somethin’ else is because you’re a degenerate and Connie has a wild imagination. Let it go.  
_

That thought led him to another.

_Is Connie just pushin’ this 'Julie-is-lonely' thing to distract from her shenanigans with Charlie?  
_

Deciding that Julie was plenty right in the head, and that her recent cold streak in the net is the sort of thing that happens to everyone at some point, Portman felt his few remaining nerves vanish. Even if he remained a bit annoyed at Connie’s self-serving manipulation.

He was brought back to the present when he entered the girls’ dormitory with Julie.

“Holy shit,” Portman unzipped his leather jacket and began fanning himself. “I forgot how hot this building is.”

“Heh, yeah. Our dorm supervisor has tissue paper for skin, so she sets the thermostat to the max. You get used to it though…wait. You said you _forgot_ how hot this building is. So you’ve been in here before?”

“Well, yeah.”

Portman couldn’t help but grin as he observed Julie’s cheeks flush.

“You’ve got a dirty mind, Gaffney. A _very_ dirty mind.”

“Sorry.”

He had in fact gone through most of the cheerleading squad – though he scrupulously avoided Mindy out of respect to Luis – and a few other girls as well, so Portman knew that he had earned himself a ‘rep.’ But revealing that he really _had_ frequented the girls’ building had the effect of making his prolific reputation feel more real to Julie.

Suddenly, the ballsy girl from Bangor became self-conscious and shy.

“It’s cool,” Portman offered. “Just think of me as Connie…with much better fashion sense.”

Julie giggled as they continued up the stairs before stopping outside her room.

“So just do with me whatever you do with Connie,” Portman continued.

“Well, before things got weird between us, we’d mostly just talk. And watch _Beverly Hills._ ”

Portman cocked an eyebrow.

“Most girls tell me I remind them of Dylan.”

“That thought had occurred to me too,” Julie grinned shyly.

Portman had seen that smile on other girls. He had never expected to see it on Julie Gaffney – at least not directed at him. But he wasn’t about to fight it.

After stepping inside the cramped dorm room and shutting the door behind them, Portman wrapped an arm around Julie’s waist and guided her to the twin bed that he knew to be hers – the Boston Bruins comforter having given it away.

She did not resist the contact, or being seated on her bed, or having Portman sit almost directly on top of her.

“So tell me about Brandon,” he invited her.

She giggled again.

 “Who do you mean?”

“Scooter.”

“Heh, I guess Scooter _is_ kinda Brandon-like. For a moment I thought you were talking about Adam.”

For the next several minutes, Julie glowingly described her older boyfriend. How handsome he was. How smart he was. How mature he was. How sophisticated he was. How proud she was to be going out with a guy who had gotten into Harvard.

Portman felt his confidence evaporate.

_So much for the ‘all girls love Dylan’ theory. Stupid Brandon.  
_

But as Julie finished her adoring tribute to Scooter, her eyes began to glisten.

“And he’s never around,” she sobbed. “If I had stayed home in Maine I would be _so much_ closer to him right now.

Instinctively, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and allowed her to bury her face in his chest. Although Julie’s problems with the Harvard boy were outside the Chicago boy’s world, Portman had enough experience cuddling with his mom after one of her scumbag boyfriends hit her, so the reaction felt natural to him.

And Julie felt perfectly natural in that moment, and in every subsequent moment that month when she missed Scooter and craved Portman’s comfort.

But by the time November had arrived, Portman was beginning to sense less sadness and more boredom in Julie. One night, over her mild protests, he took her to an off-campus party. Perhaps the vodka was what had led them to one of the upstairs bedrooms.

As he grasped the bottom of her sweater and began to lift, Julie stopped him.

“I can’t. What about Scooter?”

Portman shrugged.

“What Scooter won’t know, won’t hurt him.”

“But he’ll be visiting me next week.”

“And you can have him next week,” Portman shrugged again. “But you shouldn’t have to starve between meals.”

He grasped the bottom of her sweater again, and this time, she raised her arms and allowed him to slide the garment off. Her reluctance having vanished, Julie undid her blue jeans and slid them off herself, revealing black panties that matched her bra.

Before he could work the lingerie, she launched a furious assault against his own clothes – tossing away his leather jacket and lifting his Guns ‘N Roses T-shirt off of his muscular upper body. She nibbled her lower lip at the sight of Dean Portman’s raw power.

Scooter may have been older, but Portman had the Harvard goalie beaten in terms of physical manliness. Scooter looked more like a boy when he undressed for Julie. Portman was all man.

Of that, Julie was left no doubt when she felt him enter her. She reached her climax before he did, and was already begging for another go when he came.

“Hey, you said I shouldn’t starve between meals,” she grinned seductively.

 

* * *

_August, 2015_

_  
_ Portman stared blankly at his reflection on the mirrored ceiling in Julie’s hotel bedroom. They were both naked beneath the satin sheets, and had performed their sexual duty several hours earlier.

 _That’s what it is – a duty. Not something we want. Not even something that’s_ good _for us. Just something we have to do. And that’s the way it’s always been.  
_

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand.

4:30 in the morning.

He considered getting a strong drink from Julie’s minibar, but decided that it was too late for a nightcap. This was the PCF Convention’s final day, and Portman would be flying back home to New York the next day, so there was work to be done.

So he got out of bed, threw on a bathrobe, fixed some instant coffee, and got settled in with his laptop in the suite’s living room.

It was not long before he was joined by Julie.

“I’m sorry,” Portman offered. “Did I wake you?”

“Nah, it’s ok,” Julie sat down next to him on the sofa. “I’ve got a flight later this morning, and I’ve always had trouble sleeping when I gotta go somewhere the next day. Want me to order up some breakfast?”

He shook his head.

“Let _me_ order the room service. Let’s just head over to my suite.”

Julie grunted.

“Why get up and go someplace else? Room service is meant to be convenient! I can pay for it, don’t worry. You think you’re the only person in the world with any money, Mr. Rich Businessman?”

“I probably have more than you,” he deadpanned.

She smacked him with a pillow.

“So I don’t see why I _shouldn’t_ pay,” he continued.

Julie grinned at him mischievously.

“Are you trying to tease out my job?”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Painfully.”

As the pair laughed, Portman raised his hands in surrender.

“Ok, Ms. Enigma Mystery-Pants, you can pay for breakfast if you want.”

She pecked his cheek in a weird gesture of triumph.

“Lovely,” she beamed. “Lemme just shower and get dressed first. Now that I’m divorced, you’re the only man I let see me in a bathrobe.”

At this, Portman turned from his laptop. Julie was already making her way to the bathroom.

“Does that mean you’ll tell me your job?” He called to her.

“You can find that out for yourself,” she called back. “But you have to visit me in LA!”

Portman chuckled at Julie’s coyness. The Cat was the only person who could ever make Dean Portman feel like a mouse.


	7. Chapter 7

_December, 1999_

Drew Everett had a well-deserved reputation for hacking. The Blake forward loved nothing more than to get right up in the opposing goalie's grill, then use his size and aggressiveness to pound them into submission. Everett, true to form, had taken it upon himself to whack Julie Gaffney with his stick at every possible opportunity; and to push, shove, bully, and harass her in as many ways as his imagination would permit.

As Everett persisted in his bullying, and the refs continued to overlook his blatant goalie interference, the slow-burning fury of Dean Portman continued to smolder.

Like any good defenseman, Portman was fiercely protective of his goalie; and the fact that _Julie_ was his goalie made any goalie interference an unforgivable act of war.

Coach Ted Orion had been working to get Portman's temper under control, and these efforts had been mostly fruitful. Portman no longer blew his top at the first provocation, but he had his limit, and Drew Everett exceeded that limit halfway through the 3rd period when he drove his shoulder into Julie.

The goalie pushed back, struggling to hold her position, then nearly fell forward as she felt Everett vanish.

Portman had dragged the Blake bully off of her, then threw him down to the ice. But the Chicago-born defenseman didn't stop there. He knew that he had, at best, seven seconds before Everett recovered, the refs intervened, or Everett's teammates swooped in.

Dean Portman intended to make the most of those seven seconds.

Skating into a swift kneel, Portman grabbed Everett by the throat and launched his massive fist into Everett's face. Portman could have peppered him with light jabs, but the defenseman's righteous anger demanded haymakers; so he landed only three blows, but each one was devastating. Each punch had been calibrated to inflict the maximum amount of pain, and had been enough to leave his victim with a near-concussion and two shiners.

But before Portman could knock Everett unconscious, a Blake defenseman peeled him off the forward and propped him up for another Blake defenseman to land a crack on his jaw. Portman took a swing, and his arm was long enough for him to return the favor – the force of the blow knocking the Blake defenseman down to the ice.

As Portman spat blood, the refs finally moved to break up the fight and eject the fighters.

"Shoulda called interference," Portman huffed as a ref escorted him past Julie. "Then I wouldn't-uh had to do your job for ya."

Julie had watched the brief, but intense spectacle in awe. She hated being the damsel in distress, but she _loved_ Portman's fearlessness, his toughness, his loyalty, and his incredible strength. Dean Portman was what men were meant to be, and in moments like this, he was _all_ that Julie wanted.

Scooter had dumped her a year-and-a-half ago, but Julie had emotionally checked out of that relationship long before he had decided to move on. With her new romantic independence, Julie dated a series of nice boys with sweetly handsome features who made the dean's list and lettered in baseball, lacrosse, or soccer.

These boyfriends treated her like a princess, and looked great in prom suits.

But they simply could _not_ give what Dean Portman could.

He had kept her fed between meals for the past two years, and she gave him friendship and freedom in return. Seeing him with other girls nearly killed her, but Julie allowed it. That was the price she paid for refusing to be his public girlfriend, but she felt it worth paying.

Connie and her romantic entanglements had created enough drama for the team, and Julie didn't want to contribute to any team dysfunction herself.

Down on the ice, Julie giggled as Portman ripped his jersey off and flung it into the stands – where a pack of adoring fangirls fought over it. She could hardly begrudge them Portman's jersey when she could have the real thing any time she wanted.

* * *

_August, 2015_

Julie rolled onto her belly and went prone on one of the loungers by her Brentwood swimming pool. Clad in a white bikini, Julie maintained the bronze glow of her skin with short, frequent sunbathing sessions in her backyard. It was her first full day back in Los Angeles, and she was finding it impossible to get Dean Portman out of her head.

After 15 years, she had almost forgotten how exquisitely addictive he was.

_That bastard better visit me._

Julie had extended Portman an invitation to Southern California casually enough; but as the long, lonely hours dragged on, she became determined to call him when he returned home. Factoring in the 3-hour time difference between LA and New York, Julie calculated the most opportune time to call, figuring that she should give him at least an hour to get settled.

For a moment, the 33-year old woman felt 17 again as she strategized over a phone call to a boy.

She chuckled at that.

_The more things change, the more they stay the same…I guess._

Resolving to do something more productive, Julie exhaled and focused on her tanning.

A few minutes later, she could hear the frantic pitter-patter of tiny paws racing across the cool, white paver stones of her patio.

"Why, hello there, little fella!"

Julie rolled onto her side, sat up, then scooped her Portuguese water dog, Magellan, off the patio floor. Despite being a 'water dog,' this pooch was _extremely_ hydrophobic. For little Magellan, just being able to _look_ at the swimming pool was more than enough for him.

_Heh, probably smart. It's not like water did your namesake any good…in the end._

"You tryin' to tell me it's time to go in? Good call."

Setting Magellan down, Julie slid a blue cover-up on over her bikini, then followed the eager little dog to the sliding glass door and into the house. An imposing Spanish Revival, Julie had kept the house in her divorce, while her ex-husband moved up to Hollywood Hills. He was gracious enough to take their cat with him when he left, as Julie refused to be a single woman who lived with a cat. So to meet her need for companionship, Julie adopted Magellan from a shelter

After fixing herself a gin-and-tonic without the gin, she checked the wall-mounted clock behind the bar. In a little over an hour, it would be an opportune time to call Portman, according to her calculations.

* * *

Portman rolled into the parking garage below his apartment building in his shiny black Chevy Corvette – the vehicle that his ex-wife had uncharitably tagged a "midlife crisis on wheels."

_You're never too old for a Vette. But only geriatrics drive Caddies._

He parked the Vette in his designated space, then climbed out of the driver's seat, prompting his lower back to howl.

 _Ok, maybe you_ can _be too old for a Vette._

Stretching out and pushing his chest forward, he walked in an exaggeratedly erect posture as he made his way to the trunk to retrieve his wheeled suitcase. As he rolled his suitcase toward the elevator, he was greeted by one of the building's security guards.

"Welcome back, Mr. Portman."

Portman gave him a friendly nod. After five years of living in this building, Portman still had no clue what this man's name was. He felt bad about that, but it was far too late to ask.

"Thank you."

The guard's smile appeared knowing, but accepting of the tenant's ignorance. Portman marveled at the whiteness of the man's teeth – they almost appeared to glow against his ebony-colored skin. The guard unlocked the elevator and allowed Portman in.

After arriving on the 24th floor, Portman made his way down the plush, oriental-patterned carpeting and stepped into his apartment.

"Home sweet home."

The luxurious two-story apartment wasn't new to him, but the novelty of living on Fifth Avenue still hadn't worn off. The posh mailing address, more than anything else, was symbolic of Dean Portman having finally made it after struggling since birth. Instead of placing his life in jeopardy by going in and out of his building, Portman now had friendly armed guards who knew his name and guaranteed his safety. And instead of struggling to tune out trains, angry voices, and gunfire in a hellish slum, he now went to sleep in a quiet fortress of tranquility at the heart of civilization.

After unpacking and throwing his Vegas clothes into the washing machine, he grabbed a bottle of mineral water out of the refrigerator and moved to check his messages.

Then, the phone rang.

Picking up the handset, Portman did not recognize the phone number, but he recognized the 310 area code from Los Angeles.

"Hello?"

"Dean? It's Julie."

"Oh, Julie! Hey, there. Kickin' it old school on the landline, eh?"

"Might as well take advantage of the unlimited long distance calling."

"Heh, good point. What can I do for you?"

"Oh, nothing really. I just wanted to make sure you got home safe and sound."

"Well, I'm definitely safe," he assured her. "Sound? Well, mostly. My lower back would disagree though."

"Why, what's wrong?"

"Heh, it's kind of embarrassing."

"Aww, you can tell me."

Portman made an uncomfortable stalling noise.

"Hey, I'll tell you what I do for a living if you tell me how you hurt your back."

"Deal!"

Julie chuckled at Portman's eagerness.

"I strained my back climbing out of my Vette…cos I'm an old fart who can't bring himself to drive a more age-appropriate car."

"Well, your taste in cars may be…pedestrian…but if you're an old fart, then what does that make me?"

"About four months younger than me."

"You ass!"

"Is that a handbag I hear reaching 3,000 miles to smack me?"

"Yes, _it is!"_

"Heh. Sorry, doll," Portman offered. "You _know_ you're still a babe. And you always will be."

"That's better."

"Am I forgiven, then?"

"Sure."

"Then, may I ask…what is it that you do?"

"Exactly what I said I'd be doing when we graduated from Eden Hall," Julie answered.

_Great. She's testing my memory._

"Oh…cool," he replied. "That's great how you followed and achieved your dream! You've always been so single-minded, so that's not much of a surprise. Yep, you said you'd do it, so you did it. End of story."

"You forgot, didn't you?"

"Heh, yeah," Portman chortled.

"Well, I'm in a forgiving mood today, so I'll let that slide," Julie declared. "I wanted to be a veterinarian when I grew up. So that's what I became."

"Ah, _a vet!_ Of course!"

There was a brief pause before Julie spoke again.

"Are you…disappointed?"

"What, why would I be disappointed?"

"Never mind."

She had been loath to reveal her occupation throughout their time together in Vegas, fearing that Portman would find it – and by extension, her – boring. Plus, Julie knew all too well how an element of mystery could enhance sex appeal.

"God, a vet in LA," Portman exclaimed. "All those rich celebrities with all their precious pets…you might as well be licensed to print money, am I right?"

"I live comfortably."

"And of course your name – your _professional_ name," Portman continued. "It's all coming together now. Sure, why go back to being 'Julie Gaffney' when your professional history and reputation is all in 'Julie Mitchell?' And I thought…well, never mind."

"I know what you thought. That's because you're an ass."

"Guilty as charged, ma'am."

Julie thought about telling Portman that she loved him anyway, but thought better of it.

"So are you gonna come out to LA any time in the near future?" She asked.

"I don't know. I've got a lotta prospects in LA – plus all those _potential_ prospects that I can milk out of Neufield. It would make sense for me to get out there soon."

Julie felt the corners of her mouth form a hopeful smile.

"But I've got other business – some of it urgent – back East. And I should really touch base with my kids before I head to the other side of the country for an extended period of time."

Julie just managed to suppress a gasp.

"You have kids?"

"Yeaaah," Portman answered slowly.

"How did this _not_ come up when we were in Vegas?"

"Heh, I'd of told ya, but 'No more talking' seemed to be your catchphrase back there."

At that, Julie blushed.

"But just so we're clear," Portman continued. "I have 9-year old twins. A boy, Axl; and a girl, Rose."

"Ha! I should've known!"

"And they live on Long Island with their mother, my ex-wife, Candace," Portman added. "What about you, any kids?"

"Only a Portuguese water dog named 'Magellan'."

"A Portuguese _what?"_

"Water dog. It's a type of breed. Basically a small, fluffy dog with black fur. President Obama has one."

"Ah, so dogs _can_ be communist."

"That was probably a bad example," Julie conceded.

"Well, even if your dog is a pinko, I look forward to meeting him!"

"Heh, thanks."

"Anyway, as soon as I've got my schedule figured out, I'll give you a call and let you know when I'll be in LA."

"Great! Talk to you soon, I hope!"

"You will. Later, babe!"

Portman hung up the phone and dialed his ex-wife in Long Island.

"Candy?"

"Hey, Dean. How was Vegas?"

"Intense," he answered truthfully. "But fruitful."

"Is that Consultant Speak for 'lots of hard work, but a big payday'?"

"Heh, we try not to put things so crassly."

"My bad."

"But it wasn't all work. Plenty of play too."

"I'm not even gonna ask."

"So how've you been?" Portman inquired. "Still seeing that guy from Goldman?"

"Mmm-hmm. He's actually been spending the weekend with us."

"Great!"

_Now put a fuckin' ring on it already, you scumbag investment banker._

For Dean Portman, relief from alimony payments took precedence over finding a non-sociopathic suitor for his ex-wife.

"And the kids are cool with him?" He asked.

Candace grunted.

"Well, I'm sure they'll learn to love him," Portman assured her. "Could you put them on, please?"

" _AXL! ROSE!"_

The smooth, affected tones vanished whenever Candace raised her voice, causing her to sound every bit like the old Brooklyn girl that she was.

_But at least she agreed to give our kids such kickass names._

" _One-uh-yuh grab uhnuthuh handset. Your fadda wants-uh talk tuh both uh yuh."_

"Dad!"

"Daddy!"

"Hey, buddies!"

"How was your trip?" Rose asked her father.

"Pretty fun," Portman answered. "Las Vegas is like Disneyworld for grownups."

"What, so like there's rides?" Axl asked.

_Oh, and how. But we'll save that for when you're in high school._

"Not really," Portman said. "But there are a lot of shows. Lots of good food and comfy hotels. And of course, lots of interesting people to meet."

"Ugh," Rose grunted. "If that's your Disneyworld, I'll take the kids version."

"Heh, good call, sweetie. So what exciting adventures did you guys have this week?"

"Axl got in a fight," Rose announced

"You're dead!" Axl snapped.

"Hey, hey – easy there. _What happened?"_

The boy paused, expecting his sister to explain to their father. But as she remained silent, he knew that he had to come clean.

"Dennis was visiting, and I saw him take my 3DS, and I told him to give it back. And he said he didn't have it. And I told him to give it back or I'd tell Mom. Then he said Mom was a fat idiot, so I popped him."

 _Nice,_ Portman thought but dared not say.

It was hard not to see himself in his scrappy son. Axl seemed to have come out of the womb swinging, but he only gave it to kids who had it coming to them. He may have been a little savage, but he was a _noble_ little savage.

_Just like me._

But Oyster Bay was not the South Side of Chicago. In the latter, you had to fight just to survive; in the former, a fistfight created more problems than it solved.

"Axl, your mother is a smart, tough, and beautiful lady who can look after herself. You don't need to punch another kid just because he said something untrue about your mom, ok? The next time you have a problem with Dennis or anybody else, you tell an adult. Got it?"

"Yeah, I got it."

_He doesn't, but that's ok. He'll learn._

"Anyway, now that I'm back in New York, I'll get to see you guys next weekend! So start thinking about what you wanna do! I love you guys; could you put your mother back on?"

After Axl and Rose said their goodbyes, Candace came back onto the line.

"The boy fought for your honor, Candy. So don't go overboard with the punishment."

"Yeah, yeah. I know how to parent. I learned while you were out sticking it into anything with a pair of tits and a pulse."

"Heh, you have no idea how much I've missed your gentle understanding."

"So you're gonna take the kids next weekend?"

"That was the plan," Portman confirmed. "And those are my rights. Why, do you challenge?"

"Nah, of course not. I just wanted to know."

"Anyway, I've got a lotta stuff on my plate now that I'm home, and I gotta sort it all out. Take care, Candy."

"You too."


End file.
